Fièvre
by Broken-Vow
Summary: Yes, it would not do at all, would it? After all, you cannot leave, and who would take care of you here if I were to finally pass on?


_Fièvre_

The sheets feel good on my tired body. I stretch, feeling the fabric twist this way and that, and then climb out of bed groggily. The cold, however, forces me to dive back into the warm blankets, and I shiver momentarily, forcing my eyes open. The elegance of the Louis-Philippe room is a confusing sight; I do not know whether to smile or cry. It is colder than it has ever been down here, and I can hardly rise from the bedroom and place my bare feet on the chilly carpets. I pull a blanket from the bed and wrap it around my shoulders tightly, trying vainly to keep warm.

The house is unnervingly silent. Usually I can hear you rustling about with your music or tinkering away on whatever little devices you make. Yet there is nothing except my own breathing and heartbeat ringing in my ears. I spot a note on the nightstand and quickly understand: you are out for the day, picking up necessities that we have run out of. Although I know now, it does little to soothe me. The silence is unnerving. I ready myself for the day slowly, trying to eat up as much time as I possibly can. When my hair is perfectly in place and not one thread is out of place on my dress, I emerge and cautiously wander around your queer little home. A plate is set for me, though the food is cold now and I have no appetite. My attention is drawn to the wall that is devoted to your music; it is very beautiful, and I have never told you that. The pipe organ intimidates me slightly, and I feel unworthy to run trembling fingers over the smooth, well-loved ivory keys. Your piano is much more welcoming, and I plunk out a few happy chords before fetching a warm shawl and curling up on the couch, trying my best to keep warm.

Two more silent, lonely hours pass before I finally hear shuffled footsteps. I spring to my feet and watch the wall where I think the door is, but you come out of your bedroom door, laden with many packages. Water is literally dripping off of your clothes and running down your exposed cheek. I clutch my shawl tighter around myself, unsure of how to respond at your return. You bid me good afternoon and a parcel nearly falls out of your arms, but you balance it with your easy grace of which I am wickedly jealous. When I ask you why you are wet, you look at me as if I am a simpleton and merely comment:

"It is raining."

I do not know whether to believe you or not, but I always found it easier to do so, and so I merely watch you struggle for a moment with all of the boxes piled up in your arms. You politely decline my offer to help and dump them unceremoniously onto the table.

"You have not eaten," you say solemnly, seeing my literally untouched plate. "Is something not to your liking?"

I am distracted momentarily by a steady _drip _of the water from your shoulder; it is very cold, and I wonder why you have not started to shiver already. "No, I am not hungry."

"Oh," is your short reply, and you turn to rummage in the packages, beginning to speak once again. "It is most unfortunate, because I took the time to track down..."

You turn and show me three plump, deliciously ripe pears resting in your large hands. "These," you finish, studying my expression. My mouth waters merely looking at them, for they are my favorite fruit. I do not express my surprise at you finding them in a mere few hours, especially considering that they are not in season. The slightest smirk plays gaily with the corners of your lips, and you tilt your head slightly.

"Do you not want them? I could very well give them to some poor soul starving up above us."

Though it is sinful of me to admit, I do not very much care at this particular moment about starving souls. I hastily shake my head and make a strange gesture which you find amusing. After a short bout of breathy laughter, you wash the pears and cut them up for me gravely, setting the plate before me with the most endearing humility I have seen in you.

However, as you lean close to set the plate down, I feel the cold radiating off of every inch; your clothes still have not been changed. Though your face is now dry, I hear the wet fabric grind together uncomfortably. You have not moved from your silent spot a few feet away, watching me with that unnerving and startling intensity. As I take another piece of pear, I nervously glance over at you.

"Would you like some?" I offer hurriedly, and I hold the plate towards you, yet you politely decline once again. I set the plate back down in front of me once again and sit still. My nerves are steeled after a minute of forceful breathing, and I find courage to stand and face you.

"It is very cold down here."

Your reply is swift and sincere. "I apologize, my dear. I shall make sure to warm it for you."

"Your...your clothes are wet," I continue pointedly, and you agree with me in a very sarcastic manner. "I wish...I wish you would change them. I fear you falling ill."

The look that your eyes give me makes me shiver with a slight terror.

"Yes," you begin slowly. "Yes, it would not do at all, would it? After all, you cannot leave, and who would take care of you here if I were to finally pass on? You would despair and die, a wretched, forgotten soul, doomed to rot for all eternity in this worldly hell."

I gasp at your choice of words and chilling tone, aware that it is very true.

"Forgive me," you suddenly say, blinking a few times as if coming out of a deep sleep. "I forget where my mouth runs away. If it makes you happy, I will change my clothing. Though I must say that the excursion has made me a bit tired, my dear. If you will not mind my absence the rest of the night, I shall take my leave of you."

I acquiesce this graciously and you disappear through your bedroom door once again. There is nothing for me to do now except return to my chilly bedroom and try to sleep, which proves to be impossible. I doze once or twice during the night, yet most of the time I spend thinking of Raoul. He shall never forgive me for all of the lies I have foolishly given him. I will not be surprised if he has left the Opera House forever, and that increases my suppressed feeling of panic which began to bubble ever since you made that horrible prediction. I swing my feet over the bed and wrap a dressing gown around myself before emerging with a determined feeling. Your bedroom door seems to suck my feeble courage from my very being, yet I force my timid hand to slap it a few times, calling your name. There is no answer as I continue to beat the wood, and eventually I resort to twisting the knob. Miraculously, you have left it unlocked, and I enter with a wariness that overwhelms any other feeling. I keep my eyes purposely averted from your horrible coffin but must approach it. My stomach twists and turns with a sickening, swishing feeling that makes me want to force out my very insides.

You are not in your coffin.

I cannot help but let out a squeak of fear and nearly begin to hyperventilate, wondering where on this earth you could possibly be. Foolishly, I think you have left me here, and I stumble away a few paces, running into a curtained wall. I scream as the cloth entangles me in its cold and cruel embrace, making me trip and fall onto the stone floor. I become embarrassed by my unrestrained hysteria and lie on the floor, calming myself with deep breaths. When I force my eyes open, I spot a blurry, huddled shape near the other wall. In a strange half-crawl, I make my way to the other side of the room and give a terrified cry when I see your pale and damp face. Your eyes are closed and your breathing is ragged and harsh. As I try to roll you over, I notice that your clothes are still damp.

"Foolish man!" I say despairingly, and I feel your forehead, which is deathly cold. I never thought that I would have to be doing this, but I blushingly remove your coat and waistcoat with many wicked thoughts. I delay the final layer by quickly leaving the room and returning with endless pillows, towels, and blankets. I cannot hope to drag you to my bedroom, so I must tend to you here, on this cold stone floor. You groan loudly when I push you onto the makeshift bed, and I undo the first three buttons before jerking myself back and breathing deeply, steadying myself.

"Forgive me, Lord," I pray fervently, pulling off your shirt and averting my sinful eyes. Never in my life will I remove your trousers, and, when the thought comes to me, I feel as if my face is on fire. My fingers tremble as I pick up a towel and begin to wipe you dry. I keep my bare skin away from yours, though my eyes devour every sight you offer. I have never seen a man without his shirt off completely, though I have seen enough at the opera house to understand the general structure. You are lean and pale yet not unpleasantly so. As the towel runs around your frame, I feel the tense, sinewy muscles simply waiting to be used. I try not to think of sinful things and instead throw many thick blankets over you. Your breathing is still slow and shaky, and you clutch the blankets desperately. I find myself beginning to shiver and wrap a small spare quilt around my shoulders, kneeling beside your still frame.

The minutes tick away in an endless rhythm, and I find myself beginning to doze slightly, finally giving way to sleep.

I am woken by moaning. My back hurts when I sit up, and I hiss between my teeth as I push myself from the hard, cold stone floor. When I finish complaining about myself, I look over and find you tossing and turning in your little bed, moaning loudly with a look of pain on your face. I am not educated in medicine, yet I have a bit of knowledge on the caring for a fever. It is quite common during the cold spells at the Opera House, and I myself have been a victim more than once. I cannot help but notice, however, that you look much paler than the others that were ill.

You gasp as I place a lukewarm, wet towel on your forehead and writhe away from my touch, your features tensing and relaxing rapidly. I do my best to keep you cool, keeping the damp rag cold and sponging it over your face. I am very careful to keep my fingers away from your mask. My curiosity almost killed me the first time, and I am not stupid enough to try it again. The skin under my fingers nearly burns with heat; the fever is at its breaking point, and you handle it without much dignity, cursing and crying out loud, flailing wildly. One hand reaches out and strikes me, hard, across the face. I fall backward with a cry and press my hand to the tender cheek, now close to tears. You did not mean it, I say to myself. It was an accident. Your limbs still twist and thrash about; I am careful to keep my distance now and cannot do anything for you except wait for the fever to break. Without warning, you begin to shiver excessively, groping for the blankets I have now pulled away. I will not let you have them - I know that your body is too hot to tolerate the stuffy sheets. In response, you curl into a tight ball and continue to shake uncontrollably.

I feel so useless and pathetic; there is nothing I can do to help you. If I was ill, I am sure you would know a miracle cure or a medicine to help me become well again. As it is, I can do nothing except watch you and pray, both of which I am doing in earnest. Five minutes pass away, and during this time you begin to sob words which I do not understand.

"Please," you whisper. "Please...I didn't mean to! Forgive me! Forgive me, mother!"

Continued whispers about your mother fill the space of minutes. You ask for forgiveness and love, and I feel my eyes stinging with hot moisture. Forgetting my throbbing cheek, I crawl forward and timidly stroke the side of your exposed face. A hot, long shudder escapes and, miraculously, you begin to quiet. Your strong hands reach up and grasp mine steadily, pulling them into your chest as a girl would to a favored doll. My gentle pulls to release myself do not accomplish anything, and I am forced to sit near to you, awkwardly bending in a half-sit in order to give you all of my hands. Finally, I sense you fall into a deep and refreshing sleep; your hands fall limp and I softly take mine away. Before returning them to my sides, I brush away your thick hair from your sweaty forehead. I clean you up as best as I am able and realize how famished I am. I do not want to leave you, but my stomach is complaining and requires more attention than your peacefully sleeping form.

Your kitchen is a fascinating place; I find many different foods in your cupboards and fix myself a meager lunch. My cooking skills have always been lacking, and I eat it without much enthusiasm. The house is frightening without your conscious presence, and I sit silently, straining my ears for suspicious sounds or for your awakening; all is silent. I am tired, but I cannot force myself to sleep on the hard, cold floor, nor do I wish to return to my silent and foreboding bedroom. With great difficulty, I somehow manage to pull your small sofa into your room. It takes the better part of an hour and I collapse onto it, exhausted. Another wave of guilt overwhelms me; I wish you to sleep on it, but it is pointless in thinking of a way to get you onto the couch without disturbing or upsetting you. I must be content with what is presented before me.

Hours of sleep slip through our fingers; we are both very tired. You, however, wake sooner than I do, and, when I finally open my eyes, I find you lying straight on your back, the blankets up to your chin, your striking eyes staring at the ceiling before slowly turning to mine. I sit up, embarrassed, and manage to stutter out a few words, which you understand to be an apology. You weakly wave your hand at me, and I then fall silent.

"Water," is your whispered command, and I fetch it quickly. You are so weak that I am forced to help you drink it without spilling everywhere, and I then wait a few minutes for you to rest.

"Are you feeling much better?" I ask softly.

You make a strange half-nod before managing to say faintly, "You did not do a good job of cleaning me up, I fear."

A blush inflames my features. "What do you mean?"

"Come," you breathe and hold out your arm. I feel it; the flesh is sticky with the dried sweat. When I make to apologize, you again silence me. It is highly embarrassing; your eyes never leave me as I exit to refill the bowl with clean water and enter again, kneeling next to you. Neither of us says a word, and I place the cloth on your arm, slowly wiping away that which irritates you. When I finish with your shoulder, I pause and give an anxious glance to your relaxed face. You give a gentle, almost encouraging nod, though I can see in your eyes there is a touch of the same fear that I feel. Slowly, I peel the blanket away from you and hesitantly lower the towel onto your bare skin, now avoiding your gaze. The muscles in your abdomen visibly clench as I run the towel down, wiping away the moisture that might make you ill once again. You are propping yourself up slightly on your elbows, your dark eyes watching my hand, and it does not make me feel any more at ease. My horrible, sinful thoughts quickly do not seem as bad anymore, and I allow myself the pleasure of really _feeling _you. I use the towel as a defense and excuse, and I slowly take my fingers over the slight dips and curves of your chest. My head feels very hot, and my stomach is flooding with cold fire. I feel you tighten and release each muscle that I lightly touch; you are squirming under my hands. When I go wickedly low, just slightly past your navel, you suddenly drop your head back and give a strange, choking gasp.

"Enough!" you cry, falling onto your back. "Torment me no further! I cannot bear it!"

My cheeks are scarlet as I suddenly realize what I am actually doing, and I rip away my hands from your chest.

"I am sorry," I mutter with embarrassment. You sigh angrily and your chest heaves; even the small excitement has drained you fiercely. When you fix your gaze onto my face again, I notice you frown at my cheek.

"What is that?" you ask, trying to mask the obvious feebleness in your voice. I bring my hand to my cheek and remember the unconscious blow you dealt me.

"Nothing," I reply evasively.

"Tell me." Your tone is flat and plainly commands an honest answer.

"In your fever...you did not know yourself..."

You groan and curse yourself to the devil, shutting your eyes. "I am sorry," is your abrupt apology. I accept it with good grace and give you more water to drink. When I ask, you give scant instructions on how to properly prepare a thin broth. I return nearly an hour later, holding a noxious chemical which you manage to gulp down; I am aware that you do not pull faces for my sake. You sigh once again and hand the bowl back to me.

"I am in need of a shirt."

"Oh!" I cry, leaping to my feet. "I apologize!" I race to your bureau and hastily pull out a thin white shirt. You have been without one for so long, but you do not seem embarrassed about the fact. Well, that is a thing to ponder at another time. You struggle with the shirt, and I help, ignoring your muffled arguments.

The night passes awkwardly enough. You force me to retire to my own bedroom, and you sleep on your hard floor for yet another night. I then give you a meager breakfast of another dosage of my disgusting broth. By midday, you are alert and rapidly returning to your old commanding self. I sit on the couch and talk pleasantly to you. It is not as difficult as I would have thought; you seem eager for conversation, and we agree on many things. I cannot speak with you about many advanced things, but you graciously ignore that fact and converse on things that I can understand. You smile and laugh quite a lot, and I am doing the same. Lunch passes; I feed you a few thin slices of bread and another glass of water and take the same for myself; my stomach growls ferociously. After lunch you command entertainment. I plunk out some melodies on the piano; the notes carry into the bedroom quite well, and you seem pleased as I return.

"Much better than last," you praise warmly. I smile in appreciation and glance at the clock. The rest of the afternoon I spend reading to you. It is actually quite pleasant, and I am sorry to close the book and fetch you another slice of bread, this time with a thin layer of butter on it. As you eye it distrustfully, I think of the warm bed that I shall soon retire to and then look at the hard floor which is your bed. An idea forms, and I have the courage to voice it.

"You look much better," I say, to which you grunt appreciatively. "Perhaps it is time...time that you moved away from the floor."

"The couch?" you question. "Of course, silly child. I wasn't going to sleep on this accursed stone one more night."

The couch is a tempting distraction, however, I suddenly feel wicked. It is so narrow; you will not be comfortable, and I say that, adding, "My bed is large and soft."

You chuckle before examining me. "You are...quite serious?" you finally question after a long silence.

"Yes."

We argue for some time. I will not back down, and neither will you. When I threaten to spend the night on the floor beside you, you finally give in, only after you make me promise that I shall sleep on the couch, which I have finally pulled back into its old spot. I try to assist you to your feet, only to be waved away. You stand unsteadily, and your shirt hanging loosely on your thin frame; you have become thinner in your illness.

"Blast it," you murmur to yourself, then finally address me. "Come, dear, allow me to lean on your shoulder for a little spell." I acquiesce accordingly and help you across the great room to my bedroom. It is a cozy sight, and you cannot help but sigh as you sit down onto the bed.

"Is there anything you need?" I ask politely.

Your eyes pierce me and you look almost puzzled. Your mouth opens a few times but always closes before any words escape.

"No," you finally say.

"Well, then," I say awkwardly, going to the door and opening it. "Goodnight."

You are silent until the last possible moment, just before the door clicks shut.

"Goodnight," you say softly.

_Fin_


End file.
